To Sleep, Perchance, to Dream
by UmiUmiSumi
Summary: [A/N: Incomplete, no longer updated. See Authors Notes in last chapter] AU on S2: Jim has managed to keep the depression he's battled since childhood at bay for years, but the events of Season 2 bring it all spiraling back down.
1. Intro: The Telling Tape

Here goes my second go at an office fic. I was going to try writing something not as depressing as my last one, but I've really been too depressed and unhappy myself to write anything lighthearted. So, there'll be more rough chuckles for Jim in this fic, but I promise, no one's going to die. Really. I'm trying here, folks. )

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"To Sleep, Perchance, to Dream"  
An Office Fanfiction by SL 

Standard disclaimer: Don't own these characters. Just playing with them like so many dolls.

Introduction: The Telling Tape

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**Tape 1 – Dunder-Mifflin documentary  
Staff interviews. Confidential**

"Nice to finally meet you! I'm so excited to be in a real movie! You know, I'm just thiiis close to being a professional at improv," the black suited executive type with the face of a eight-year old exclaims with a smile. He looks up, confused at what the interviewer is asking him, eyebrows furrowed together. "Ok, whatever, movie, documentary, it's HOLLYWOOD!" 

"Confidential questions?" she looks up from the sheet of questions she's been asked to consider answering. "My life is an open book: I have nothing to hide." She tosses her yellow hair back in a huff. "Now, the rest of these… ugh… people I work with here, I'm sure you'll get some sordid tales that'll be very telling of their shallow ways. Except maybe Dwight," she pauses, thoughtful, "He has always been exceptionally upstanding. Beyond reproach." 

"Fact: Schrute men all must spend their thirteenth birthday shaving their own head only to paint it with a mixture of bear feces and beet juice. It instills vitrility and an appreciation for antihelminths." He looks back at the interviewer, his eyes intense behind his thick glasses. "Yes, that is my answer to 'What was your favorite birthday'. Why do people always ask me that after this story?" 

"Where did I grow up? Sheesh… I gotta think about that one," the older man with a glassy look to his face asks himself, scratching at his chin, looking far off into the distance. "I mean, gypsy caravans never stay in one place long. I suppose the longest we stayed anywhere may have been this field outside of Bakersfield… but that might've been on that one self-journey I took in '65… man I've done so much acid I don't really know what actually happened anymore!" he laughs and throws his hands up flippantly. "Does it even really matter?" 

"Ten years… where do I see myself in ten years?" she asks herself, looking down at the floor, twisting some of her brown curls with her fingers. "Does it have to be what I really think or what I imagine it as? Both? Ok," she nods, smiling wistfully. "Imaginary: married for years to the love of my life, in a fashionable old house with a garden and two, no- three kids! And I'll teach art classes down at the community college, but most of my time I'll devote to my loving husband and kids. Realistic: hopefully married to Roy, my fiancée, and probably still working here. It's got flexible hours. Oh yeah, we'll probably have a kid by then maybe. Roy only wants one – he doesn't think I could handle more than that. He's probably right," her smile has faded to a rehearsed look if contentment, though the disappointment in her eyes shines through. 

"I spent most of my time in High School in the 'Skipping Class and Getting Drunk' club. That's where I met my husband. Sorry jerk. He took the last bottle of Grey Goose when he drove off to Mexico with that little hussy," the redhead mutters to herself, "Yeah, now our little brat's headed to the same school. I wonder if my stash of Christian Brothers is still behind the wall in the girl's bathroom…" 

"I mean, I really just want to meet a really sweet but also cute, but also a little dangerous, you know so I know that if some bitch comes up to me and is like 'oh no you're not' and I'll be all like, 'oh yes I am' and he'll totally back me up and be like 'hey back off'. I've already looked around the entire office, and really, beyond like like Jim, who's totally not my type, too emo and weird looking, everyone here is like so old, so I go to bars on the weekends, but my mom's always telling me, 'why don't you meet some nice Indian boy who's a lawyer or a doctor or something', but then I'm like, 'really, maybe if he's cute, but, eew, not the old men you're thinking about.' What was the question again?" 

"If I could do anyone else's job, it would totally be Spiderman." The overweight, balding accountant says with a juvenile grin. "I mean… what's more awesome than Spiderman?" 

"You can't be serious," he says, looking down at the paper, then back up at the camera in the most worn out but disgusted manner. "I did not come to work today to play twenty questions with a camera crew. My time is my money, and my money doesn't have time for this. I'm going back to work so I can go home right when that clock hits five." 

"I enjoy art shows, fine wines, um… ah, Nieman-Marcus, especially around the holiday sales. I try to get out to the new Broadway shows when I can," he pauses, a grin washing across his tanned face, "Aw, who am I kidding? I'm a sucker for musical theater, I'm out there almost every weekend. We… I saw 'Phantom' at least four times." 

"Well, to be honest, I haven't had such good luck with men until just a few months ago," the middle-aged, overweight, but sweet-faced woman begins, "I began to talk with Bob Vance, from Vance Refrigeration, on our way up the elevator. We've been on a couple of dates… and oh, I don't want to make any early assumptions… oh, but I think I'm in love!" 

"Hmm… One thing about myself that no one else here knows about?" he purses his lips up towards his nose for a moment, thinking. "You know, if I'm not telling them, what makes you think I'll tell you? Oh, confidential? That's the paper I read before I came in today. In that case, I'll find you something." His brown eyes look around the room as he rummages through his memories for something particularly interesting. He stops suddenly and looks at the camera again, somewhat seriously but still appearing good-humored. "I got it. When I was sixteen I tried to kill myself." He looks intently at the interviewer, "No, not at all. I had a bad problem with depression when I was a teenager – you know, a lot of kids go through it, I had some trouble fitting in, I was awkward and funny looking. So, one day I just felt so bad that I didn't know what to do anymore and I rigged up a noose off the old tree behind my dad's toolshed. I was pretty darn close to pulling it off, but my dad came back to get something out of the shed right when I had put my head through, and that pretty much ended that little 'cry for help' as the psychologist called it." He looks again at the interviewer and shakes his head with a careless smile, "Nah, I'm all past that. I grew out of it. Little antidepressant here and there back in college. I'm really pretty happy now," he leans onto his hand somewhat uncomfortably, his smile still on his face, but something raw simmering beneath it.


	2. Chapter 1: In a Sea of Troubles

Chapter 1: In A Sea of Troubles

He had been sitting on the dirt next to his car, he wasn't sure for how long now. His mind here, there, nowhere, all at once, stuck while his eyes stared down at the ground under the early morning shadows. He was beginning to become aware of exactly what was happening, but his heart was unmoved by this – it always was this way with it, by the time he could see it coming, it had arrived and created an emotional cesspool around his motivation.

"How did I get back here?" he mused, finally breaking away from the circular thought pattern that had been running through his head since they returned from the awful boat ride. He looked up; no cars left in the dirt lot near the dock, no people, just him and his problems. Appropriate, he thought, that the world around him looked as it felt: in shades of dull gray, lonely, cold.

Visions crept past him of the night before: he could have told her, he didn't; fool. How wrong they were together, sitting at a table next to the wrong person, eyeing the opposite's date. She had to know somewhere that he was all wrong for her. But then, then… a wedding date. Got one thing that she wanted out of him, just one thing; he'd trained her well, finally one little morsel brought her back in again and she was all his. Told Katy to go; she wasn't who he wanted, but he couldn't pretend, she had no tidbit or treat to keep him coming back, and he wasn't good at lying to himself. So the emptiness grew inside him as it hadn't in such a long time.

Michael's encouragement echoed in his ears again. "Never, ever give up." The words of a fool, but earnest words. Despite himself, they brought him some comfort, some courage, but most of all, a glimmer of hope. And it was this small hope that kept the despair, his old friend, from draining him completely. But he still sat, surrounded by crusted and muddy snow.

"Come on, Fella, private property," he heard a gruff low voice say from almost right next to him. Startled out of his internal struggles, he looked up to see a police officer, dressed in a blue overcoat and muffler, curls of condensation puffing out from the muffler and the officer's reddened nose. "There's a shelter down the street with some beds and food. I'm sure the owner of this car's not gonna be to happy if he comes back to find you making a home beside it," he continued, forcefully but surprisingly kind.

Jim was tickled by what just occurred: the cop was assuming that he, Jim, was a bum.

"You should see if they can get you some better clothes – you're gonna freeze one of these nights dressed like that," the officer added, offering Jim his hand to help him up. Still taken aback by being assumed to be a vagrant, Jim reached to accept the hand up and realized why the officer had suggested better clothes: his fingers were beginning to turn blue from being exposed to the frigid winter night. Pain radiated up his arm as his fingers threatened to snap off as he lifted himself to his feet.

"Thanks," he muttered to the officer as he rummaged through his pockets with his benumbed hands to locate his keys. Finding them, he held them up in the dim light to find his car key and with a nod to the officer, he opened the door to his car.

"Then this is…" the officer stammered, obviously embarrassed now.

"Yeah, my car. But really… thanks for being kind. I totally would have taken you up on the shelter idea, but I'm sure someone else needs it more than me," Jim said back, a weak smile washing over his exhausted face.

"You gonna be ok to drive home fella?" the cop asked him, his cheeks still reddened.

"Yeah."

* * *

The hot water stung every inch of his skin, his waking nerves unsure if they were feeling too much hot or too much cold anymore. His hands had turned an angry shade of red on the drive back to his house. He had been afraid that he might have gotten frostbite out there, but now he was sure that he was ok, though his thoroughly chilled extremities were getting their revenge for his carelessness now by throbbing painfully in the water.

Pain. It was still an unwelcome feeling.

He began to think, as he often did, as he plopped a bit of shampoo into his hands and lathered it into his hair. What did he expect to happen with all of this, that was the question at hand. He had known for at least a year now that Pam was the only reason that he kept going into that awful office day after day, week after boring week. Just to talk to her, to tell her about something he'd seen, to gossip about the next asinine thing Michael had said, or what Dwight had done; these things had become the light that kept him selling paper. He rinsed his hair as he ran a soapy sponge over his skin absently.

He supposed that if she were no longer there, he would move on as well. College had been good to him, really, had given him a chance to see that being a strange kid in high school didn't mean he was locked into being an outcast for life. He was one of those people who left it all behind, became fun and witty, gone to where no one knew anything about the black nail polish and white face powder, the teasing, the fights, the depression, the months he had spent in that damned hospital. In college, he had proven himself capable, told himself that all of the insecurity and anxiety he had felt was long gone. But why now did the thought of changing jobs leave him with doubt and fear?

He pushed the shower curtain open wide to let the steam out and stepped carefully over the lip of the bathtub. Grabbing his towel, he swiped the mirror dry of the steam and stared at his reflection. More than anything right now, he told himself as he rubbed the towel over his head, he wanted things at the office to be the same as they always had been: Pam and he were the best of friends, that she and Roy were never getting married, and that Jim always could dream of a chance with her someday far away. Could he keep pretending, though, he wondered as he traced his fingers over small lines of white scars on his upper arms and chest, remembering the old frustrations that had spurred him to making them.

"This will not get me…" he whispered to his reflection, angry about the scars, angry about new wounds that he didn't want to appear, "I am going to be stronger than this… it's not over. I can still be happy."

He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked back to his room, quietly, as Mark was still sleeping off his own partying across the hall.

He sat at his desk, rummaged through a drawer and at the bottom found a beat-up old journal. The outside said: "Jim's Bad Thoughts". He flipped through quickly; he didn't like to read his old entries, especially when he was feeling as weak against the despair as he was this morning, and came to a blank page towards the back, musing at how there were only a few pages left in his current book – he had long ago filled the pages of a similar book when he was a teenager, but this one had endured to last all through college, and really, he had not even looked at it since before he got the job in Scranton. A part of him was extremely disappointed in himself that he had to come back to this.

"1-6-2006

"So Pam's set a date for the wedding. It hurt like nothing else has. I broke it off with Katy – didn't really like her anyway. Stupid chick, but nice, pretty, but.. stupid. Not Pam. Damnit.

"May have made a huge mistake telling Michael about the Pam crush. His secret keeping skills are, on a scale of 1 to 10, probably –3. Just want to go back to office and have things normal again. I guess it's not normal to keep tormenting myself with love for someone who's probably not going to love me back. Friend zone sucks. I'm the asshole who wants to take her for myself. Me, the kid who Roy would have thrown in the trashcan in HS.

"Why didn't I just leave? Dumb job, stupid Dwight and Michael and every other person, don't care about each other. Feels like I'm stuck in homeroom from 10th grade all over again. But she keeps me there. And I keep me there. It's been making me wonder if I'm actually capable of anything better anymore… maybe I saw myself as too much. Maybe I deserve this job, maybe I can't do better… I can't do better than being the 'friend' of the woman that I've (stupid) pictured myself marrying over and over again. Who'd want to marry me?

"Damnit, shut up Jim with stupid thoughts like that. I AM NOT LAME. I can do things. I deserve someone like Pam. I deserve a better job – I should be telling a tard like MS what to do not him me.

"Ok… little better now. It's not all over. It's not over.

"Depression index: gloomy

"-JH"


	3. Chapter 2: The Pale Cast of Thought

So, I really lost some steam on this one, but one day someone tagged it and I got an e-mail reminding that it exists. I'm really trying to make an effort to finish things I start, so I pushed along through this chapter. I've got like 4 other projects right now, but no publishing until I'm happy with them first.

Warning: super duper angsty. Lots of self-pity.

-SL

Chapter 2: The Pale Cast of Thought

He stood there in front of the mirror again, as he had for every day of the last week. He stood there to look himself in the eye and force himself to keep going on with whatever it was that was next to do in his day; there was something about his own reflection that put himself feeling as if he were outside of himself and his feelings, or a times lack thereof, that made it easier for him to tell that person what he needed to do to keep his life in motion, however hollow it felt. Up to now, it had just been in the mornings, after nights spent in restless sleep, thoughts of her, wanting to never see that place again, feeling like it was his cage yet knowing he'd be there anyway, perhaps forever. But ever since things changed two weeks ago, he'd felt the heavy hollowness creep into more and more corners of his life.

But here he was now, perhaps nearing midnight, and he was staring himself down in his bathroom mirror, unmoving, trying to somehow fight back the darkness that every day took a little more of him. He wanted to sleep, at times he wanted to do nothing else for an entire day, but tonight he couldn't tear himself away from staring into his own eyes in that mirror, remembering the day past him that tried the very last bit of his patients and sucked away a little more of his strength, strength that he was trying his best to muster back up to keep him from doing what his sullen and tortured mind was spurring him towards.

_Jim you stupid, stupid man_. He berated himself mentally, _You just had to go and let Michael know how you felt about Pam. The ONE person who'd fuck it up for you so completely without even breaking a sweat. Idiot. Idiot!_

Things had been going OK for him before today, at least he kept trying to tell himself that.

_Pam and I've still been joking and friendly, she didn't have any clue how I felt… like always… and I just wanted something normal. Fake, but normal, but why? Oh why, Jim Stupid Fucking Halpert did you tell Michael Scott anything about your feelings for someone in the office?_

Lowering his head he stared down at his hands for a moment, the sight of his long fingers wrapped around something that he still wished that he had not kept returning his dizzied memory to the day behind him.

He should have been amazed that it had taken that long to be general knowledge; not that the more observant of his co-workers couldn't have easily guessed that he was completely infatuated with their sweet-but-spunky receptionist. He was much better at covering up any signs of the current dark funk that had settled over him; he'd spent the last half of his life perfecting the art of being who he wanted people to see him as publicly while being a shattered mess in private. But he was often amazed at Pam's lack of perception, especially for how well the two of them seemed to understand each other, as she always seemed to be at the edge of figuring him out, but she never quite took that next mental step.

_Why would she want to?_

The day had begun so normally, though Pam had begun to work in earnest on planning her wedding – he'd rarely seen her so excited about anything before, felt envious that he had nothing to do with the cause of her smiles. He had been chasing away thoughts of how soon, Roy would be there for her permanently, and maybe he would pull his head out of his fat ass and start making Pam happy like this all the time and continue to prove how useless and impotent Jim was in this whole situation, when Michael had begun speaking about their little 'secret'. He was immediately launched into crisis control mode, which to his slight satisfaction, was still a better feeling than the finely hidden self-loathing he had been carrying around; at least he didn't feel he needed to hide the sense of emphatic urgency that laced his words when he took Michael aside to explain how 'friends' don't go telling their 'friend's' secrets.

_A hell of a lot of good that did. Got me a crappy lunch at hooters and some unfamiliar boobs shoved in my face. Even hoped that might actually get her and everything off my mind, but, shit… it's like my dick doesn't even know how to work right anymore. Didn't do a thing… Didn't even keep her from finding out._

And that's what had changed him tonight. The lie he told her, face smiling, waving it off like it wasn't the biggest reason he woke up hating himself every morning, like it wasn't something that he would gladly trade the rest of his life to spend just one day as the man that she loved. He told her that it had come and gone a long time ago. He told her in his smirk and wave and shrug that he wasn't in love with her, and a part of him withered and faded into the miasma.

What he couldn't shake was the look on her face, as if she had been expecting something, as if…

_It could've been that thing that just compelled her into seeing me as someone more than an escape. If I had just told her…_

He gripped his hand tighter, frustration, anger, then, a consuming numbness.

If I had just told her.

His hands and back shook against themselves, trying to will himself against the floating thoughts and impulses that were telling him to do, what he had feared he would fall back into if things continued to progress the way they were going. And they had. He knew it from the moment he left work. The pain by numbness.

She had dropped the cup early that morning, right after they took a drink break together, as they had nearly every day for the past year. Talked about Dwight, about weekends, about nothing, talks that he loved and looked forward to daily because they were his little times where he felt like she was almost his. And she had used a little green ceramic mug to drink out of for the past few months. The green mug had been his, he kept it in the drawer of his desk. Ridiculously small, he didn't really remember where it came from, but remembered vividly the day she had made fun of him for trying to drink coffee out of it.

"So… were they not selling big-kid cups at Ikea this weekend?" she had quipped to him when she walked by to hand him his mail.

"This? No, it's my new way of driving Dwight crazy," he answered back informatively.

"How is that? Did you discover that he's appalled by miniature cups?"

"That's a possibility, but no – I've figured if I keep having to get up to get more coffee every ten minutes, I may just drive him insane."

"Working?"

"Erm… not so much. He's been in Michaels office for like, two hours now, so it hasn't been my most successful plan. I have, however, succeeded in lowering my own productivity by having to take so many trips to the break room."

Pam smiled down at him, enjoying their banter, then held her hand out to him. "Well, I'll save you one trip. I'm headed for the kitchen, I'll clean it for you as a consolation prize for your failure."

He threw back the last drips of his coffee and handed it over to her. He never saw it back on his desk again; it was from then on the mug she used for tea on her morning break. He never mentioned it. To him, it was close to a girlfriend stealing her boyfriend's t-shirts to sleep in, and to mention it might break the magic that surrounded yet another item shared between them. But that morning…

CRASH!

"Oh no!" he had heard her behind him, and turned around to see her kneeling down over what remained of the little green mug over a damp splotch on the carpet and a spent tea bag.

"Your cup… I'm sorry, Jim, it just slipped out of my hands," she said to him disappointedly as he knelt down to help her pick up the mess. "I'll get you a new one, ok? I'm sorry."

"Ah, don't worry about it. It was just a cup," he told her, in much the same way he would later that day say that he had 'just had a crush'. They picked up all of the little pieces and threw them away before they went back to work. All the pieces but one. He couldn't bring himself to be rid completely of something that had symbolized a little bit of intimacy between them, so he had taken a large shard and stuffed it into his pocket. And now he was holding that shard in his hand, gripped so tightly that the sharp point was nearly digging a hole into his palm.

_I'm not going to do this…_

He kept trying to wrap himself around anger, around frustration, around raw unrequited passion, anything. They were all better than the wooden, hollowness that he knew too well.

God, don't let me do this…

The strange feelings without feeling were there… the plea for anything except nothing. Any physical pain was better than the numb emotional pain, like his hands when they had been nearly frostbitten.

With a swift motion, like his arm had been released from a trap, he drew the jagged edge of the ceramic shard savagely across his chest, self-loathe, frustration, disappointment, lies, all making a successively deeper wounds, over and over. Tears streamed down his face; he finally felt something, he could see the blood begin to ooze out of his wounded skin. The pain and the blood were relief, were failure.

Thrashing his arm back out to his side, he dropped the bloody mug shard onto the bathroom rug, and stared back at his reflection, horrified. Old white scars; new bleeding wounds.

"No, no, no…"

He wept, crumpling down the wall behind him.


	4. Chapter 3: With a Bare Bodkin

**Here's another chapter in another downer of a story from little ol' me. **

**Fair warning: quite a bit of blood in this chapter, so if you're queasy about that stuff, tread lightly.**

**If anyone cares, this will probably be the last thing I update for a while until December. I am in the process of quitting my job right now and trying to keep up with school. Unfortunately, my latest return to writing has seen my school efforts decline, and so I've made the decision to put my stories aside until I've quit my job good and proper.**

**Anyhow, here's chapter 3. As always, reviews are highly welcome.**

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox**

Chapter 3: With a Bare Bodkin

He sat by himself in the lunchroom, hardly touching his usual ham and cheese sandwich. Fingering a well-worn business card in his pocket, he stared dully at the wall in front of him, his mind slow and burdened from a sleepless night, still pondering without much progress on whether to call the number on the card, or to continue living as he had been for the past few weeks. Lunch today was lonelier than usual, but as much of himself that was tortured to be without his usual company, an equal amount was relieved to not have any more opportunity to wound himself by interacting with her again. Their last conversation was likely the reason why she had chosen to use her lunch hour to do some impromptu wedding preparations outside of the office, and why she had hardly said a word beyond 'hello' this morning. As if he really needed her to make him feel any worse than the last twelve hours had done to him already.

He gave up on the sandwich and tossed it away, along with most of his coke and set himself back towards his desk and possible distraction from the circling disgust for himself and the weak but persistent impetus to try and get some help for the depression that he knew he was deeply mired into already. He walked stiffly in his right leg, each painful step not letting him forget yesterday and how disgusted he felt with himself. And try as he might to stop there, those sentiments always brought him back to remembering his last conversation with Pam, and remembering Pam always reminded him of how much he desperately loved her and how wretched he was because he could not have her.

At this point, however, it was still his goal to avoid notice as much as possible. It was instinct, second nature as it were, for him to appear as if nothing were the matter, or at least if he could not hide his internal strife completely, always have a mundane explanation ready to be made in the most unaffected way possible. In high school, he told teachers that he just spent too much time up late playing those darn computer games and that's why he looked so tired; in college, he was studying, that's why no one had seen him for weeks. Here, no one usually cared to notice how his eyes looked deep and shadowed beneath his brow, how great lines drew at his eyes, how his smile was hollow and insincere. But a limp could garner attention, so he had already prepared an excuse that he'd pawned off on Kevin, who had just happened to make it to the elevator at the same time as him and couldn't help to not notice the hitch in Jim's step.

"Ah, think I pulled my hamstring last night playing one-on-one with the roommate last night. Guess I'm not as young as I used to be."

Proprietary chuckle, smile, wave off as they made it to their desks without any further interaction. Mercifully, Dwight had accompanied Michael on a trip to corporate regarding the union threats that the dockworkers had made the day before, for as much as his nemesis had nothing but contempt for him, he would have noticed something off and taken advantage to bother him about it. Doubtless, he thought as he made a sales call, that he would have noted that he was even less productive today than usual, or he would have had one of those oddly astute moments and noticed that Jim was not favoring his knee, but rather his upper thigh. He wasn't sure if he had the presence of mind after no sleep the night before to even make a good comeback or find a way to distract Dwight's persistence anyway.

He managed to make a couple of calls before he felt that he might end up losing clients if he kept trying to do business with a better part of his brain more or less useless to him, and began to fill out some inane reports that he would likely have to re-do on Monday, but it was all about running down the clock now and the work week would be over. He was hardly into the second page when he couldn't help notice Pam return from lunch, a half-hour late, looking perturbed. She sat down at her desk and immediately went to retrieving the half-dozen calls she'd missed.

He did his best to keep from peeking over his shoulder to see if she was looking at him, assuming that she was still upset with him for speaking too freely of his opinions of her fiancee's opinions, when after ten minutes went by he was surprised by the ring of the instant message request that popped up on his monitor:

Message request from: MixedBerryPB

MixedBerryPB: Oh my god people are so stupid! I just lost the last 30 mins of my life at wal-mart...

JHalpert79: Oh? Care to share?

MixedBerryPB: Well this old lady in front of me only had cash, and the clerk couldn't seem to figure out how to break up a 100$ bill, and when he did he decided that he needed to give the old lady like 20$ in ones which he counted out s-l-o-w-l-y as stinking possible! arrrrrgh.... and then she goes and counts it again, even slower than him! and then he hasn't even bagged her stuff and I went over my lunchtime and haven't eaten a thing and now I have to watch this clerk who I'm sure is very nice but just very stupid and that's why he's a clerk at wal-mart and I must sound like an awful person right now. blurg... Jim, don't ever let me buy anything there again. ever.

JHalpert79: Wow. I'll be sure to remind you to think of the poor old ladies and special ed clerks and how you may resort to ramming them with your cart of rock-bottom priced junk. You can count on it.

MixedBerryPB: lol... never thought I'd be glad to be back at work and have someone to vent to.

JHalpert79: Well if you're ever feeling tired of us I'll just remind you of wal-mart.

MixedBerryPB: hey, speaking of tired, are you ok? you look like crap (sorry, it's true, but better to hear it from a friend and all)

JHalpert79: who needs enemies with friends like this? lol, j/k. been feeling a little crappy since last night... maybe i'm getting a cold or something.

MixedBerryPB: well, take care of yourself, or I'll have to put up with michael by myself if you have to call in next week at all. =(

He looked up from his computer to see her smiling back at him as if nothing had ever been wrong, his misstep forgotten. And for once today, he smiled genuinely in return.

MixedBerryPB: did you have ketchup or something red with your lunch? cause you've got something on your pants.

He looked back up at her and saw her mouth, 'your pants, you have something on your pants!' and pointed down over her station at him. Momentarily confused, he looked down to what she was pointing at and felt panic quickly rush over himself when he saw a wet red splotch forming on the fabric of his khaki pants. Suppressing the urge to get up and run to the restroom at that minute, he smiled back at Pam and typed a quick reply:

JHalpert79: wow, I've been sitting here all this time with that on my pants, how embarrassing. better rinse that off before it's permanent. Pam, you may have just saved these pants – they send your their deepest gratitude.

After sending his last message, he gestured to her that he was headed to the men's room to clean the stain off of his pants; she smiled and waved at him as he did his best impression of someone who was not at all concerned about the stain on his trousers before he could lock himself in the bathroom properly.

"Shit... shit... shit..." he muttered to himself as he undid his belt and pushed his pants down to his knees revealing a blood-soaked ace bandage with even more blood-soaked telfa pads beneath it wrapped halfway down his right thigh. He swore again while he pulled up the bandaging to reveal an inch-long wound that was still steadily seeping blood. He leaned forward against the sink and looked up into the mirror at his own desperate face, and knew now that there was no choice anymore: he had to get that looked at by a doctor. He'd hoped he could avoid that last night when the bleeding had finally stopped for a while, but now, from the look of it, it was good that Pam had noticed – any longer and the bleeding may have trickled down his leg, and no amount of ketchup could explain having his entire leg utterly soaked in red.

He shoved a couple of paper towels into the bandaging and washed the blood from his pant leg as best he could, concocting an excuse all the while. At least he didn't have to tell Michael he was leaving.

Steeling himself up to face Pam again, he emerged from the restroom wearing a face of discomfort that nearly matched how he was actually feeling and did his best to not limp to Pam's desk, however painful it was, and leaned over to talk to her.

"Hey, mission accomplished?" she said to him before she got a chance to observe the grimace that was his face, "woah, what happened in there? Was Kevin in there with his candle again?" she asked jokingly but her eyes betrayed the mild concern she actually felt.

He tried his best to smile, but the pain in his leg had become aggravated after he had fiddled around with the bandaging so much and then walked with his full weight on it, which resulted in his smile only coming out as a strange-looking frown.

"If only I were so lucky," he croaked out through his teeth. _Great, now she looks really worried... _"I'm... I really don't feel good right now, and I think I'm just going to leave early. Wouldn't want to share this joy with everyone in the office." He covered his mouth with his hands and puffed out his cheeks a little implying in his mime that there had been a whole lot of puking going on in that restroom.

"Aww... I'm sorry," she said back to him with a cute little frown of sympathy. "Hope you feel better – hey, call me if you need anything, ok?"

The offer cut him deeper than the wound on his leg; lucky his back was to her, picking up his messenger bag, or she would have seen him wince. It was always like that; so much caring, so much concern for him, but never enough for her to go beyond being a really close friend. If he needed anything – he needed her in a way that she didn't seem to understand. If only she knew how her words pained him.

"Thanks, I'll be sure to take you up on your offer if I need something, but I'm sure I'll be just fine. See you next week," he managed, grabbing his overcoat and escaping out the front door.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

He'd been sitting in the emergency waiting room for nearly an hour now. He hated the hospital, hated seeing doctors and their questioning looks, hated the emergency room especially, but he had no choice. While he wasn't sure that the wound would bleed so much to cause him harm from blood loss, he surely wasn't ready to take that chance, nor did he want to think about what would happen if it led to an infection.

It lifted his hopes, strangely, to feel some concern for his own well-being and safety. It let him know that there might still be help for him, that he only need seek it out. He felt for the card in his left pants pocket, but remembering it brought feelings of hesitation. It was embarrassing, it was failure to have to seek out professional help. And then to go back to the psychiatrist that he had seen as a teenager... he had helped, but so many memories surrounded those visits.

He let his thoughts drift back to the night before, closing his tired eyes to drown out the light around him that was worsening the headache that had grown from lack of sleep...

He'd spent the previous evening awake and tortured. The look that she had given him after he'd suggested to her that her fiancée wasn't thinking in her best interest, how she spoke to him as if he were a stranger who was taking liberties to judge her life without any knowledge or right to do so. He cared about her so much, loved her so much, that he hadn't been able to sit back and watch her let that man sabotage her life. But his actions had only proved to hurt himself and no one else.

He'd sat in his bed, in the dark, for most of the night, and around one in the morning, decided to make himself get up. He lumbered to the kitchen and rummaged around the fridge even though he knew he wasn't hungry. The distraction was fleeting, and soon he found himself sitting on the kitchen floor, unable to wrest his mind from the frustration, the self-loathe he felt for allowing himself to be so open with her, the pain from the way she'd responded. His eyes rested on the block of kitchen knives.

No... he'd told himself, tears welling up in his eyes again. It had been two weeks since he'd hit such a low place that he had resorted to slicing at his own body to make him feel something, anything besides the emptiness inside himself. And now he felt all of the frustration and emotional turmoil becoming so overwhelming again that he was sinking into the grayness, where everything mixed together. It was as if the lines of reality around himself were growing fuzzy, as if he were disappearing into the staid gloom that was overcoming his heart and mind when it could no longer make sense of where it all began and there was no 'why' anymore to what he had sunk into, only the fact that 'it is.'

Those kitchen knives held him, though. They were Mark's fancy and expensive Japanese cutlery, his prided collection that he would brag about during parties and use to cut whatever random object he could rummage up to show just how sharp they were, how the steel was strong and the blade and handle balanced in perfect harmony with each other. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself standing before the counter, his hand on the wooden handle of one of the middle sized knives. He pulled it from the block, the fine carbon steel sang as it rubbed against the wood and found itself free in Jim's hand. He contemplated the grain on the side of the blade, from folds to the steel, back and forth in a forge to strengthen the blade; he admired the polished wooden handle with a smart steel cap on the base; he felt the keenness of the blade rub against his thumb, feel it catch against callused skin.

He then pictured how easily that inch-wide blade would slip between his ribs.

The knife was immediately flat on the counter, and Jim on the floor, clutching his knees to his chest, rocking slowly and staring at the floor wildly.

_No... no... no... Jim, you will not do this. Don't even think_...

"Oh excuse me! I'm fine with my choices!"

_No... I don't want to hear her anymore..._

"Call me if you need anything, OK?"

_How can she do that...? Why does she torture me? This cesspool... this darkness... it's taking me and I can't get out... cant get out...._

He felt his heart beating faster against his ribs: he wanted it to stop. His breath came in raspy short gasps, between frightened and desperate tears.

_Stop._.. Get the knife... _Stop!_ Make it feel your flesh_. Stop it stop!_ Rend sinew from bone, and _stop this madness!_

In one swift motion, the swirling stopped, and his mind and body reacted of one accord – horrendous pain.

"Shit... fuck... arrrgh!!!" he could hardly hold back his exclamations and his hands shook at the sight of what he had just accomplished: four inches of the fine six-inch utility blade were buried into the flesh of his right thigh. The pain swept over him like waves of electricity, as if his entire body were one big, raw nerve.

He was sure that he must have blacked out for a few minutes, for he had fallen onto his side and the next thing he could see was blood dripping down the knife handle into a small puddle on the linoleum floor. His body still throbbed with pain, and every time he moved a muscle in his leg the sharpened steel moved and created yet more pain and increased the amount of blood that bubbled up from the wound. He knew that he had to pull that thing out for a number of reasons – the first of which, oddly enough, was that he knew he couldn't live down or explain to Mark exactly why he had chosen to stab himself viciously with one of his prized knives; the other reason, well, even if he did have to go to the emergency room he really didn't want anyone else to see that he was insane enough to do what he had just done.

As he wrapped his hand back around the handle, which was now slick with clotting blood, it occurred to him that the knife could be the only thing holding off some huge severed artery or something. He hesitated for a moment and considered that possibility, then shrugged inwardly and decided to take his chances – he's a big guy, and mostly sure that he could get to the emergency room before he turned into some dried-up husk. With one deep breath, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and gave the thing one great pull. The next sensation made him dry heave on his side again, and hearing the knife clatter onto the floor, blacked out again from the pain.

He awoke some ten minutes later, his leg utterly drenched, but the pool of quickly drying blood next to him hadn't grown to more than a ten-inch diameter puddle. His leg was still in more pain than he had ever felt before, but he was relieved to find that the bleeding was no more than a trickle – quite glad that he'd lucked out and missed anything under heavy back pressure. Panting, he made himself get up to his feet to survey the damage around him: the knife lay on the floor with spatters of red around it from where it had dropped, and next to the little blood puddle a large smear had formed where the liquid had gathered around his leg while he had been passed out.

So, tying a kitchen towel around his wounded leg, he painfully set himself to cleaning his own mess from the floor, grateful that the blood hadn't been allowed to set and dry, washed the knife as if it had done nothing but sliced a bit of cheese for a late night snack, and even changed out the trash bag that was full of bloody paper towels to ensure that there would be no accidental discovery of his activities that evening. He almost chuckled to himself as he hobbled up the stairs as he imagined what wild conclusions Mark would have come to if he had discovered the carnage that was in that bag.

As the clock struck six AM and he heard Mark's alarm go off, it occurred to him that he had not focused or felt any of the horrid hollowness and gloom that he had been overcome with before he'd attacked himself so brashly. He wondered, while he finished bandaging the wound that he had done his best to clean and flush thoroughly, which was worse – being stabbed in the leg or the emotional turmoil he had been feeling before.

And as he drove to work and felt the depression sink back in as the mundane reality of his day began, he would probably take his chances with the knife again if given a choice between the two.

And that's when he decided that it was time to consider professional help.

He managed, as soon as he heard the nurse at the desk call his name to come into the treatment area, to do his best to lay on the 'Halpert charm' – all smiles, all jokes, the normally hardened ER nurses even daring to creak a hint of a smile back. He dodged the questions with sarcasm, danced around any thoughts of his odd wound by making jokes on how he was officially the last man alive who should be allowed to slice a sandwich. And it worked – not a word inquiring as to his mental state, no concerned stares.

Only was the intern who had been set to flushing and suturing the wound not completely taken in by Jim's unaffected manners.

"So..." the intern, a young man no older than Jim himself with an easy air about him began to say as he began suturing, "that's quite a stab wound here, isn't it? Can't say I see these too often on skinny white dudes like you too often."

"Well, I'm pretty unique," Jim offered back, though with less vigor than earlier – he was really feeling the effects of not having slept in almost a day and a half.

"Yeah..." the intern muttered as he pulled another throw together, giving Jim a quick eyeing, "that must've been quite a bit of force for you to have gotten it that deep." He pulled another long stitch through.

Jim shook his head, "Happened somehow... weirdest kitchen accident ever, right?"

The intern threw one last knot over Jim's skin and then looked up at him earnestly. "Yeah, funny thing though, you and I both know that this wasn't an accident," he began in low but urgent tones, and catching Jim off guard to where he dropped his forced smile and stared back, his heart in his stomach. "And that leaves me wondering why? Who are you covering up for?" They stared at each other for a moment, the young doctor trying to gain some insight from the look on Jim's face, who now had completely given up his airs, feeling too tired to fight back now that he felt that his insincerity had been discovered.

"I see," the other man said, grabbing a paper that the attending had left and handed it to Jim, "I'd like to mention that this hospital has some very fine psychiatric counselors, although I'm not at liberty to recommend them to you unless you specifically ask." He slyly looked up at Jim, hoping that he'd take the hint.

It wasn't that Jim wasn't mildly touched by the effort, but he wasn't ready to talk with just anybody about all of this, especially anyone with the knowledge that he'd stabbed himself already, and he really didn't want to think about what they might do to coerce him into checking himself into the dreaded psych ward for the second time in his life. He took the paper, which contained a prescription for pain medications and a few weeks' worth of antibiotics, and replied, "Thanks, but I think I'm doing OK now."

The intern looked deflated, but nodded, which was all he could do now that Jim had declined his offer. "Well, then, I hope we don't see you back here any time soon, ok?"

"Right-o..." Jim said, and offered him a handshake, "thanks for fixing my leg up, and..." he added mid-shake, "being the only one here who saw past my flimsy acting."

The intern smiled back, "just make sure you get yourself some help and that'll be thanks enough."

His leg much more comfortable, Jim hobbled his way out of the emergency department and back to his car, the little push from a concerned stranger just enough to give him the resolve to do what he knew he had to, or else risk seeing far too much of the inside of a hospital. Once seated, he pulled the old business card from his pocket and sighed as he dialed the number into his cell.

"Hi, the name's Jim Halpert – I was one of Dr. Valentine's patients a few years ago... oh, hi, Jen, I had no idea that was you, it's been so long, yes, I know... Anyway... does he have any openings on Monday? Um hm. Um... Well, yes, sooner's better than later. Ok. Got it, three PM. Nope, I'll be there. Ok. Um hm, will do. Bye."

He flipped his phone closed with a smack and sighed, leaning back in his seat. He felt suddenly defeated again, a feeling that never seemed to leave his side anymore.


	5. Chapter 4: Who Would Bear?

Chapter 4: Who Would Bear the Whips and Scorns of Time?

Something felt deliciously good about offering to mail out those save-the-date cards for Pam, with a smile on his face, hoping for a small moment that the shoe was on the other foot for once. From the look on her face and the disappointment on her voice after he dropped his bomb into her tittering little wedding-planning world, she felt some sort of loss when he 'thanks but no thanks'-ed her invitation to her wedding to that insufferable dick.

He strode out to his car, head held high and a swagger in his steps, feeling like he had finally taken his life and feelings back into his own hands. It had taken some humbling – twice-weekly therapy for four weeks now, and a hefty loading dose of Zoloft, which he could tell was really starting to make a huge difference on squelching all of those feelings of self-hate and emptiness – but for the first time in months, he felt like maybe he could get through all of this and come out on the other side a better person.

Today was like he was really back – he made the prank of the century on Dwight, and without even putting a lot of effort into it, and single-handedly no less. And the real test, the cherry on top of his day was how he deflected the potential cement-shoes that he might have had foisted upon him when he had the displeasure of having to listen to all of Pam's wedding planning. He was really amazed with himself – this could have ended him before, put him so low that he at this point couldn't fathom what he would have done to drown out the deadness that he remembered with a twinge of fear. To be back there, in that dark hole into which no light shone, with the memory of it still too near behind him to even want to look at for the possibility of it growing a pair of arms and pulling him back in. He kept his mind focused forward as much as he could, and there, nothing could faze him.

After work on Thursdays was a therapy day. It was often rare to have sessions so close together, but Dr. Valentine knew Jim from the days when he was a troubled teenager and knew to take Jim's calls for help with a deadly seriousness. And while Jim glossed over the self-impaling of his thigh with his normal avoiding-things-casually skill, he had made sure to open up about the skin-cutting from before that to throw off the scent of him holding back vital information to his state of mind, something that Jim knew due to their prior acquaintance that Dr. Valentine would be suspicious of. Really, he was still way too embarrassed to have anyone of any consequence know about that particular incident, nor did he want Dr. Valentine to suggest a quiet little getaway to a psychiatric treatment center. At this point it was just shy of that: intensive sessions twice a week, immediate drug therapy, and an informed third party. The third party thing had Jim worried – he didn't want it to get out among his current group of friends and co-workers that he was mildly insane, but nor did he want to worry his mother, who had been Dr. Valentine's first suggestion. They compromised with choosing Jim's second-older brother, Pete, as the informed third party. And while Dr. Valentine had hoped that someone who lived closer to Scranton could have been chosen, he settled on the family tie and that New York wasn't extremely far off.

He bobbed his head along to his Arcade Fire album that he had blasting from his stereo, having stashed away all of his darker standards, like his exhaustive collection of The Cure, and his other new wave favorites like Joy Division, Bauhaus, and Siouxsie and the Banshees. It had begun as a therapy suggestion, but the happier music and the less connection it had to his previous depression spells really did seem to take his mind off of the despair, and at this point, replaced it with an enjoyment of sorts. He was a little disappointed when he realized how much of his extensive music collection was slightly gothic, death-centered, or, at this point, tainted with memories of feeling horrible. But he found solace in the excitement of buying a lot of new CDs over the past few weeks, and he was exited to pop in the new Thom Yorke solo album, Sonic Youth, and TV on the Radio as soon as he could get through the next disc. His only disappointment in this lay in having to resist the new Decemberists album, knowing that he'd find a lot of romanticized death and violence within their finely-crafted tunes. What sacrifices.

A half-album later, he was seated in the familiar brown leather couch in Dr. Valentine's office. He'd been here many times, and though it was usually not some place that he would have chosen to end up at, this time he was feeling grateful and triumphant for the progress that he had made in that room.

Dr. Julius Valentine, a tall, balding man who made up for the loss on top with a well-kept full beard, and wore rectangular glasses, all of which made him look like the stereotypical 'shrink' that most people would think of when presented with the word. He had only been a couple of years out of his professional program when Jim first came to him, some twelve-ish years ago, and was now properly middle-aged, which added more to his appearance fitting his work. He remained, however, open and warm, which was an asset to his practice, as half of his clientele were older children and teens, many of whom, like Jim, he would see from time to time as they grew and had to face their psychoses from a new place in life.

As one of his earliest patients, Dr. Valentine had a special affinity for Jim Halpert, helped along by Jim's sense of humor and affability; there was some feeling of like-mindedness between them on that account. This accounted for ill and good in their professional relationship – the doctor honestly cared for Jim's well-being and put in the extra effort to help, but there was always the possibility of that care to cloud his medical and psychological judgment of him as well. Either way, when he heard that Jim was having problems again, he insisted that they begin twice-weekly sessions and accommodated his schedule as best he could without inconveniencing his other clients. Jim, being an empathetic sort of fellow, had sensed this care over the years and had opened up to the doctor much more than he had to either of his parents, or any other counselors that had tried to pry through his shell of jokes, shrugs, and apparent lack of seriousness. But he still didn't make it easy for Dr. Valentine to get past his defenses and look onto the wreckage underneath that he was so ashamed of.

"You're looking good today, Jim," Dr. Valentine began with a small smile, "why don't we get started today on that note: are you really feeling good right now?"

"I can say, with out a doubt, that I am feeling better than I have in months," Jim began emphatically, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees and his hands fidgeting together near his mouth.

"Good, good," the doctor scribbled notes as he usually did, "why don't you tell me about what you feel is helping you to feel better," he said to Jim, making sure to look up and make eye contact any time he was asking a probing question.

"Ah, well..." Jim took a second to gather his thoughts, "Ok! Yesterday I pulled the prank of the century on Dwight – I convinced him that it was a good idea to emulate Adolf Hitler during his acceptance speech for salesman of the year," he paused, seeing the masked look of surprise on the doctor's face, "It's ok – ironically, the speech was well received. Actually, I would be more concerned about a fascist uprising within the ranks of paper salespeople from the northeastern United States."

"Ok," the doctor nodded with a chuckle, "Anything else?"

"I think my medication's really kicked in the last week..."

"Excellent; exactly how it should be working. Do you think that you're experiencing any side-effects at this point?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Jim sighed, trying to let go of the small amount of embarrassment that came any time he had to resort to medications to fix his head, "Just a little tired, not bad though, and I think a bit of that feeling like I've got some sort of shield to bad emotions. Though that always makes me wonder if I'm acting like an asshole because I'm not as sensitive to the 'negative' thoughts as I was before," Jim thought specifically of Pam this afternoon.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that right now," the doctor reassured him, "you need to focus on getting your mind healthy first, and then we can try adjusting your dose to a level that you're comfortable with long-term." He looked up over his glasses, "You will be taking these for the duration I prescribe this time, I hope?"

It was more of command than a question, and Jim nearly rolled his eyes and nodded. He had yet to take prescribed psych meds for as long as Dr. Valentine had prescribed them, which would most likely be indefinitely, as the doctor felt that Jim's condition could benefit from long-term therapy to help even out any dips in Jim's mood and possibly prevent a major depressive episode, like what had been occurring over the last few months. Jim, however, usually never lasted more than six months on the stuff after the side effects grew more bothersome than the symptoms he had without them. And to bolster his view of things, he only had major problems once every five to six years, so it just didn't make sense for him to keep medicating himself for what he perceived as a rare occurrence. So Jim remained stubborn.

"I'll keep up with them as long as I need them," was his half-answer back, though Dr. Valentine knew that Jim's intention was like it had been before. He stopped pressing, knowing that if he pushed too hard it would only cause Jim to close off to him, and thus end up backtracking and ruining days worth of trust.

"So what have you decided to do about the situation with Pam's wedding?" Dr. Valentine digressed into another direction, though it wasn't a surprising one – Pam had been the subject of a number of sessions, as Jim's infatuation with her and the unfortunate situation of her being unavailable acted as a catalyst to drive the young salesman back into a state of deep depression. At their last meeting, the doctor had encouraged Jim to find some way to celebrate the day for himself if he could not bring himself to have the moment of closure that attending the wedding would bring, which had been his first and preferred suggestion on how Jim could handle this dreaded day. But he knew that Jim had a very tenuous and fragile grip on his newfound state of mind, and Dr. Valentine was working in every way he could to help him stay on the side of healing, even if that meant taking the long road around some obstacles in his life.

"That," Jim began tersely at first, then brightened after he had collected his thoughts, "I am not going to _that,_ and I've decided to take a vacation to Australia that week. I've always wanted to go there, and while I know I'm escaping from something unpleasant, I may as well try to enjoy myself while I'm doing it," he explained, earnestly owning up to the fact that he was avoiding rather than facing his problems.

"Alright," Dr. Valentine replied clinically, jotting down notes on his clipboard.

"I just feel like I'm becoming myself again – what I mean is the 'me' that existed before I let myself fall in love with someone who would never love me back – and I've really been celebrating that. I've got this feeling that life is coming back for me and I want to go with it. Heck, I've even thought of trying to move up and out of my 'self-defeating' little job and find a 'career' somewhere."

He put his fingers in the air to 'quote' the words he used to echo some of Dr. Valentine's analysis of how an intelligent and capable man like Jim would choose to work somewhere beneath him and even while there, fail to make any effort towards making something meaningful out of his position there. The doctor surmised that this may go hand in hand with his chronic depression and poor self-image that still lingers from when he was a teenager, that he has chosen to do what he feels that he deserves. They had a long talk about this a couple of weeks ago now, and had ended in the doctor urging Jim to be fair to himself for once and try to find a real career he can focus on and that also challenges him in a positive way, instead of beating him further down into a state of self-hatred. Jim had thought that these were perhaps strong words for benign old Dunder-Mifflin, but he'd tried his best to take them to heart.

"Good, very good. I would encourage you to act further on looking for new opportunities for yourself," Dr. Valentine looked up and could see the exasperation on Jim's face, likely from all of the improvements, the changes, the 'encouragements' that the psychiatrist was charging him with week after week, like a kid who just can't stomach more homework, "All in good time! Don't look so overwhelmed – this is all a process, like everything has been before, and we work little by little, push forward with as much fortitude as you have and not an iota more. We are not going to stop, by any means, but progress can't continue if you don't have the strength to walk."

Jim looked somewhat relieved, and smiled a half-smile as he often did.

"Yeah… I know, it's … well, I've just been stuck in this pattern of existence so long that the action of changing direction – it's really hard. I'm not gonna lie."

"And that's why you're here, Jim, so you have a resource and place to make sense of the whirlwind of change in light of your personal psychological needs," Dr. Valentine said gently.

Jim almost laughed out loud. "You mean my personal brand of crazy?" he shot back playfully.

"If you want to call it that, but the profession doesn't turn to using such inexact terms," the doctor played back, pretending to be serious and adjusting his glasses further down his nose to seem more like a psychiatrist than he already was. Smiling, he went back to business. "Since you have been thinking about moving ahead in your professional life, let's explore what directions you'd like to take…"

The session carried on in this manner for the rest of the hour. Jim talked about vaguely wanting to work in publishing or writing, especially if it had to do with sports or indie music, which were his two big passions in life, and that he hoped he could find something at least more fulfilling than selling paper and pining after the office receptionist.

"Well, the time has certainly flown by," Dr. Valentine remarked as he glanced up at the clock that indicated that their session had gone over by ten minutes.

"Oh, wow, yeah," Jim said, noting the time himself. "Er… are we still going to do the accountability test?" he asked sheepishly, hoping for a negative answer.

"I almost forgot – yes, we will be continuing that until you're stable for a few months. You know the drill," the doctor said to him, smirking a little at the sentiment that Jim had dug his own grave with this one today.

"Alright, alright…" Jim muttered, loosening his tie, and continued to grumble as he undid the buttons of his shirt.

Jim hated doing this, but at his first session he had to agree to this particular act of transparency before Dr. Valentine agreed to not suggest a full psychiatric evaluation at a hospital, overnight stay and all. Dr. Valentine knew Jim well enough that he didn't come running back to psychiatric help without a good reason, and as his past track record had indicated, he was very much at risk for hurting himself. Jim had found himself between a rock and a hard place, but realized that he was so desperate for some help and at the same time did not want to go to the psych hospital where someone would inevitably see the full extent of his problem with sharp things that he gave in to the doctor's request: that at each session, Jim present his arms, chest, and lower legs for inspection of further self-mutilation. Dr. Valentine was disappointed but not surprised when at the first inspection he discovered many healed and unhealed scrapes and cuts striping Jim's upper arms, chest, and back. So the inspections continued, and they did help to deter Jim somewhat from cutting himself, as he generally targeted his upper body and arms.

He presented his bare arms, with pink and white scars all up and across his upper and part of his forearm, and pulled up his white undershirt to show that his chest and belly were in the same state as his arms: scarred, healing, but no new wounds. With a nod from Dr. Valentine, Jim took to putting his shirt back on, though not bothering to re-do his tie.

"Thank you," the doctor said, writing down some final notes after the inspection. "Ok, Jim. You know what you need to work on this week, and I will see you next Tuesday. Oh – and by the way, just so you know ahead of time, I will be out of town for two weeks May – big conference out in Florida. We'll see how you're doing closer to then to decide if I'll have you visit Dr. Malka while I'm gone or if you can have a break from all of my 'silly questions' for a couple of weeks."

"Well, I'm hoping to be down to monthly visits by then," Jim said, shaking the doctor's hand. "Thanks again for all your help. I know I keep saying this, but I really feel like I'm going in the right direction now. See ya, Dr. Vee."

He stopped at the receptionist's desk to confirm his next appointment and pay his co-pay for today's visit. The receptionist, Jen, a middle-aged woman with a motherly sense about her smiled up at him as she took his charge card.

"Jimmy, you look like you're feeling better," she noted with a smile before she swiped the card through the reader and handed it back to him.

"Much better," he replied, signing his name to the charge slip and handed to her with one of his better grins.

"I have to say, even when you were a little guy, you've always been one of my favorites around here. You know, it always kind of cuts both ways around here having a patient you really like – it breaks my heart to see some of these adorable kids come in and know that something's really hurting them inside. But when I see things looking better down the line, it all feels like it's good that they were here – like you right now."

"Aw, well, thanks Jen. You've always made things way easier for me," he said with genuine gratitude. He was about to say his farewell for the day, but one last thought popped into his head and he found himself asking it before he knew if he wanted to know the answer.

"You ever have kids that… you know, don't get any better, ever? Ones that there's no helping?"

The receptionist seemed taken aback by the question, and looked thoughtful for a moment. Adjusting her bifocals lower on her nose, she looked up at Jim over them before taking them off altogether with a sigh. "Yeah, it happens. Not a lot, but it does. I mean, I'm not supposed to know a lot of what actually goes on in the room, but I hear a lot from the phone and in the lobby. We have our fair share of second opinions, of someone getting put away, either in jail or the hospital, and, unfortunately there has been… worse. But that's not a lot, and you know, if I thought about those ones a lot, I don't know if I could work here anymore. So I try and remember faces like yours today, bright with a new lease on life."

"Gosh, well that's a really good attitude. I'll have to remember that, and smile as much as I can when I come in," he said, waving as he turned for the door, "See you next time."

"Bye hon," she said with a wave too. She watched him disappear out the front door, then turned her attention back to the computer screen in front of her, but after a moment sat back in her chair. She looked out at the front door again, seeing the patients that they would never see again, the ones that hadn't been helped. And for a moment, though she couldn't imagine why, she wondered if some day in the future she would be looking at that door remembering the man who left among those. She dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred and went back to work.


	6. Authors NotesStory Notes

Hi All. I'm making it official this this story will not be updated anymore. As a consolation, I am posting my story notes so that those who are interested could see where I was going with this. Thanks for reading.

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To Sleep, Perchance, To Dream Story Notes

Timeline: 1/5/06 – 5/11/06 (Booze cruise – Casino night) And beyond will be all AU

Episodes to use: Booze Cruise, The Secret, Boys and Girls (?), Dwight's Speech, Drug Testing, Conflict Resolution, Casino Night

Booze cruise – ch 1- In A Sea of Troubles – done

DONE The Secret – Ch 2 – The Pale Cast of Thought – Elapsed Time: 2 weeks. (Where Michael spills the beans about Jim's crush on Pam, how he tells her it's nothing) Overall: (D) Begins to cut self again. (P) Jim pensive before bathroom mirror, deep inthought.

DONE Boys and Girls – Ch 3 – With a Bare Bodkin– Elapsed time – 2 weeks – (Where Pam gets the offer for internship, they argue about it) Overall; (D) Stabs self with kitchen knife after feeling guilty for fighting with pam.

DONE Dwight's Speech – Ch 4 – Who Would Bear the Whips and Scorns of Time? – Elapsed time: 1 month – (Where Jim plans trip to Australia and tells Pam he won't be at her wedding) Overall: (D) Has been on a/d since last chapter, doing better, seeing therapist, had suggested taking a vacation.

Drug Testing – Ch 5 – Patient Merit of the Unworthy – Elapsed time: 6 Weeks – (Where Jim is Jinxed by Pam and is sad when she tells him that he can tell her anything. Right after really good time episode) Overall: (D) Things somewhat back to normal, but something always comes up that makes him think about her again, D gets worse.

Conflict Resolution – Ch 6 – Their Currents Turn Awry – Elapsed Time: 8 weeks – (Where it's aired that Jim complained to Toby about wedding planning, and after realizing that he's wasting time, puts in for a transfer) Overall: (D) Really D again, beside himself with anxiety, but still feels like he can maybe get through it with the transfer. But begins taking more a/d, getting more suicidal thoughts.

Casino Night – Ch 7 – The Pangs of Despis'd Love – Elapsed Time – 1 week – Overall: (D) Anxiety spurs him to tell Pam. Rejection makes it all go back down. Goes home gets into bed and stays there for a day, stewing in his thoughts and depression.

Chapter 8 – "He Himself Might His Quietus Make" – Elapsed time – 3 days – Jim has decided to end his misery with large handfuls of pain pills and antidepressants and the large kitchen knife.

Chapter 9 – "To Be or not To Be" - Pam get an odd e-mail from Jim; we finally discover that she's thought something was wrong with him, and when the cameraman catches her showing Dwight the letter, he shows them both the first interview tape and Pam puts it all together and begs Dwight to take her to Jim's house. Pam and Dwight arrive to find him bloodied and barely breathing.

Chapter 10– "Be All My Sins Remember'd" – Elapsed time – 7 days – Pam's thoughts as Jim's life hangs by a thread. She is told of his past and problems before she knew him. He awakens at the end, but does not wish to speak to her.

Chapter 11 – "Bear Those Ills We Have" – Over the next few weeks while Jim is still institutionalized. Pam and Jim have a lot to discuss, and Pam has some self-searching of her own to do after Jim, who at this point doesn't care what he says or does, lays down his observations with her without any sugar coating.

Chapter 12 – "What Dreams May Come" – Epilogue - ?

Jim Backstory-

Grew up in Dunmore, went to Dunmore HS. Always a sensitive kid, began to have dark, gloomy side around 8th grade. Was tall, awkward, still sensitive, but liked to play sports and listen to music (favorite band: the Cure). After excessive teasing by older kids in sports (made fun of how he looked, stuff he liked, being sensitive), he dropped out of sports his sophomore year, began dressing in black (essentiall goth), became increasingly depressed and focused on death. Parents confused, but convinced it was just a phase. (1995) (grad 1997) End of Sophomore year after entire year of being depressed and stress of school environment, tries to kill self (April 95). Precipitating factors? Seeing kids who bother him repeatedly get excused by administration, made fun of in newspaper, friend gets beat up and moves away (girl?). Went away to psych hospital for a few months. After came home, parents send him to Scranton HS, where he does better, has some friends more like him, and begins to learn to come out of his shell. Goes to College of William and Mary (Good grades!) majors in History. Creates a new image for self: leaves behind dark image, aims to fit in and be fun. Works well for him, leaves college with high hopes, gets job upon graduation at DM. Has a couple of minor bouts with depression in college, but gets over with medication.

Jim's depression: depression – social rejection hard for him, anxiety about failure, about changes, about love, about his own capability. Will self-mutilate out of frustration and akasthea.

Problems with Pam bring out his feelings of being stuck, how he doubts his own capability, his fears of moving forward. Makes depression worse.


End file.
